


Clíodhna

by takaraikarin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/F, Faux Medieval, Folklore, Knight!Allison/Banshee!Lydia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 21:59:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7124014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takaraikarin/pseuds/takaraikarin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’d touched bows that curved almost as lovely as those lips. The most beautiful of them were always the most deadly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clíodhna

**| _'Clíodhna'_ | Allison/Lydia | Teen Wolf AU | 1324 words | Gen | Faux-Medieval Knight!Allison/Banshee!Lydia AU | **

 

The afternoon air brought colder drafts through the Manor, chilling the tips of fingers and toes even through Allison’s thick gloves and closed shoes. She’d worn three layers of undergarments under her surcoat –adorned with the Duke’s coat of arms, and still a source of pride to be worn for Allison— and still she felt chilled to the bone. The draft was worse here on the third floor, but the usual inspection is a must. So Allison squared her shoulders and inspected alcoves and closed of rooms, too many rooms, like she knew her father and grandfather were currently doing on the first and second floor. She only had a few more precious minutes before the sun completely disappears and the princess awakes, and she’d needed to be a long way away from that end of the third floor’s east wing by sunset. 

Allison was just locking back the small library next to the large oaken door leading to the master suite when she heard the heavy bells Gerard Argent run from the tower in the western courtyard and she knew she’d been too unhurried. 

Chillier, stronger drafts swept through the corridor and Allison felt it acutely rushing through her that she had to plant her boots firmer and held onto the balustrade, else she’d be swept away. The harsh winds wails around her ears and the master suite’s heavy doors opened with a bang and Allison couldn’t help but look, although she gravely wanted to look away, to run away, but the winds and dread running through her body kept her planted on the floor. 

The air settled into a gentler, cool draft, and Allison looked in relief as the opened suite door only revealed an empty sitting room. She knew she should turn away now, walk back out of the corridor and make her way to the staircase, all the way to the first floor where she’d stay in her station, but something invisible was pulling her closer to the opened door. And she took steady steps as if in trance towards it.

She had wanted to examine and explore—instincts encouraged and honed from infancy for Argent Knights—but her eyes were drawn towards the massive painting on one side of the room, near the curtained door that she knew must’ve lead to the bedroom. 

At first she could only see swirls of red and orange—fire? Allison thought—upon further inspection, the red and orange swabs merged into fabrics, flowing and swathing around the figure inside the painting, and when Allison craned her neck upward she, what she saw took her breath away.

A fairy queen, she’s quite certain of it, with fiery hair flowing around her fair face like flickers of flame, and Allison knew if she tried to touch it she’d feel the licks of that fire. But she still wanted to touch it, trace her fingers along the aristocratic arc of her brows, down to large, haunting eyes that Allison hoped could’ve fluttered close at her touch as her fingers would make their way down those fine boned nose towards the queen’s mouth.

When her gaze reached those lips, Allison was convinced the flame was real, as she felt heat travel through her veins, running in opposite to the cold draft surrounding her. But it seemed to fit, she seemed to be running hot and cold as she stared at those perfect Cupid ’s bow, and Allison physically itched to run her hand on them, as intimately as she would’ve held her own bow and arrows. She’d touched bows that curved almost as lovely as those lips, and the most beautiful of them were always the most deadly, and Allison wouldn’t doubt that that mouth would be just, if not more, deadly. She wouldn’t doubt touching those lips would remind one of one’s own mortality, and if the price to kiss them is one’s own life…

A heavy hand grasped her shoulder and spun her around, and Allison reined in the instinct to elbow her ‘assailant’ when in the split second she turned she realised her father’s face.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Christian Argent was a tough father, and firm, so he didn’t shout at her, but he sounded grave after all. 

She didn’t get to voice out her sorry when a soft lulling voice started coming out of the bedroom door. Lovely, hypnotic cadencies. The princess was singing. Both Argents froze at realization.

‘Downstairs. Now.’ Her father said between gritted teeth, and Allison didn’t need to be told twice. They took brisk, long steps, as close to a run without actually running away from the room, and shut the heavy doors firmly just before the voice raised into a lullaby. Allison spared a last longing look towards the lovely woman in the painting before she followed her father rushing down the corridor towards the staircase. 

‘Don’t ever do that again.’ Her father said as they reached the first story landing.

‘Yes, father,’ Allison replied.

‘We’re lucky she was singing. If it she’d been crying…’

‘Understood, father,’ she said again, automatically. But then she realised her father had stopped walking, and he was looking at her solemnly again. 

‘This is a grave matter, Allison. We may be here to protect her, under pretense of guarding the people _from_ her, because we the Argents are St. Martin’s Knights, but we’ve no protection to her power. We can keep the people form hurting her, but if she wants to hurt us…’

Allison nodded at the gravity in his face. ‘Understood, father,’

He nodded back. ‘Make sure that you do.’ Before making now calmer steps towards the ground floor. Allison could already see her grandfather at the corner of the antechamber. She winced inside, knowing that a scolding for tardiness from her grandfather would be inevitable. 

Christian turned to his daughter.

‘Take the west wing, I’ll device the rest of the spell with your grandfather.’ 

Allison looked at him in gladness. He’s sparing her Gerard’s wrath, after all. Saluting her father with a grin, Allison made her way swiftly towards the courtyard. Her steps faltered just outside the door and she turned back at her father.

‘Father, that woman in the painting upstairs, who was she?’

Christian leveled her with a careful look at that question, and seemed reluctant as he answered, ‘That’s St. Martin’s Princess Lydia.’

Allison could feel her body froze as loud, bone chilling shrieks traveled from the third floor and rattled the stones, the grass, traveling with the wind, shaking the trees, and reaching the villages surrounding the mansion. Nocturnal birds awoken by the sound flocked towards the mansion, their flapping wings made flickering shadows on the courtyard like black flickers of flame without the heat. Everything was ice cold, and Allison could see her breath ghosting out of her mouth into the pitch black night. The birds croaked along with the continuous wailing from the third floor’s bedroom and when Allison looked up, their wings had blocked lights from the moon and the stars. 

When she turned back her father was already gone. She knew he’d gone to his own station. It’s an omen, most probably of somebody in the village, and grief might bring anger. They’re of Argent blood and two stories of stone are enough protection for them. 

There’s not much to do but to wait out the wailing, the laments of grief at her own station. Wait out the aptly deathly chill in the air that’ll stay that way as long as the princess cries.

Allison thought of the woman in the portrait. Of her fiery hair and vibrant eyes and ripened lips and doubted her father. The princess signified coldness and death, it’s impossible that the portrait was of her in her youth. His father must be mistaken.

Allison tied the belt around her surcoat tighter to guard off the cold draft as she waited the wailing night out.

  
_The ghosts swarm._  
_They speak as one_  
_person. Each_  
_loves you. Each_  
_has left something_  
_undone._

  
_"Unbidden" -- Rae Armantrout_

 

**Stop.**  



End file.
